The Totally Promiscuous Pairing Machine
by Suki
Summary: All sorts of drabbles, all sorts of pairings. Reader's choice. Characters and Gundum Wing universe not included.
1. The Difference

_Author's Note: Boredom rears her flaxen-pale skin again. I have engaged the aid of one random internet pairing machine, of the __same name__, with somewhat of a good result. It is here before you. Please keep in mind, that I do not write NC-17, nor can I write with a _prescribed_ rating, so that alone is violated. Hope you like it anyway. S_

* * *

I will write a fanfic or drabble with the pairing  
**Treize/Dorothy**  
rated  
**R**  
and include the following things:  
**knife, water, colony**

**The Difference**

Dorothy moved one step at a time.

Her left hand trailed along the cold wall, clammy and soft. In her right hand she held a **knife**, tucked protectively against her body, like a child.

Only her eyes portrayed any hint of anxiety. They and the green, wet pallor that crept along her skin.

She did not have much time.

Lady Une would return, any minute now, with that constant and sickening doting that ruled her entire life.

Dorothy perched on the final step, her curtain of flaxen hair sweeping around her. She heard the murmuring of the military men downstairs. Who were they to suspect? Dorothy Catalonia, with her prim smile, her graceful movements, her angelic hair, and her slanting, conniving eyes?

She moved swiftly down the hallway, like a shadow, came to the door, and slipped through without hesitation. The handle made a soft click as it closed behind her.

The breezy, open room was all white and tile, with a large, rectangular window in the far wall, its curtains undulating deliciously. The ceramic bath was placed directly before it, and his smooth, broad back met her, reclining.

She came forward softly, with an almost tender progression. She leaned over him fully. His head leaned back, his eyes closed, in total relaxation.

He sensed her hovering, because his lids opened gradually, and his face betrayed no hint of surprise at seeing her.

"Dorothy."

His casual statement caused her eyes to flare dangerously.

But she parried back, "So fortunate to have come across you, my dear Treize – all alone, at that. It's so seldom now that one finds you without that militaristic barbarian woman trailing behind you like a Doberman."

He smiled, causing her frown to deepen. His eyes closed once more, and the **water** lapped around him soothingly.

"Lady Une is my devotee. I only allow her to do what pleases her, no more, no less."

"Yes, and I suppose her transformation into a simpering, bashful politician is no fault of yours, either?"

"Hardly." He looked at her again.

Dorothy smiled this time, slowly, with the corners of her mouth. This displeased him, and he wondered. She concealed something in the folds of her skirt.

Dorothy removed herself from her position leaning over him and began to pace. "Your progress with the last **colony** has failed miserably, you know. You're losing popularity. Someone will soon dethrone you."

"Popularity is a far different thing than power, my dear," he said smugly, but his face was serious. "I claim to be a dictator, not a monarch. That is the difference."

"The _difference_," Dorothy said sharply, turning, "is that a people love their monarch, while they only _fear_ a dictator."

"Hm," Treize smirked, pretending to consider this. "Perhaps you're right," he mocked. "I do so _enjoy_ being feared."

She moved toward him again, speaking lowly, "Not everyone fears you."

"No?"

"I do not fear you."

He lifted his arms up over the lip of the tub, and splashes swept around him, then settled again. "Do you not? You hate me, though."

Dorothy did not answer.

"Why is it that you hate me so much?"

She glowered.

"You are quite the aspirer, yourself. You envy me. You want to be me."

She laughed highly. "Don't be a fool. It's a far better thing to be in a place of submission, working behind the scenes, pulling the strings, worming into peoples minds and ears like a maggot, never to be found out, for, after all, you're not the one in charge . . . are you?"

Treize looked at her, and his gaze penetrated. "Poor, Dorothy," he said, thoughtfully, almost sadly. "You could have been such a contented, sweet girl. Like Peacecraft. Only she was raised happily, in the loving shelter of a family, and you, from a tiny infant, exposed to the harshness and impiety of war, to the ferocities of mankind."

Dorothy stared at him, horrified.

"You learned from an early age from those around you what it means to deceive, to twist, to lie. To get what you want."

Her eyes trembled. Hard tears trickled down her white cheeks, un-summoned.

"That is the _true_ difference – between you and me. I make it clear what I want, whether right or wrong, and go after it, respecting my fellow human being along the way. But you – you hide it and let it grow poisonous, wounding those around you, and isolating yourself in your lonely self-righteousness."

But he couldn't finish, for Dorothy screamed and lunged at him.

He jumped up swiftly, and caught her wrist, knife in hand. With his other arm, he grabbed her, and they stood in an all out deadlock.

Dorothy cried, but with despair this time, not rage. She thrashed to free her arm, but he was much stronger and older than she.

They both breathed heavily from their unmoving struggle. Treize's brow creased and his cruel eyes seemed to soften.

"What is it?" he said. "Tell me what you want. I will try to make it better."

Dorothy dropped the dagger. It clattered onto the tile floor, echoing somberly. Her limbs dropped and she collapsed in on herself.

Treize kicked the knife away and wrapped himself in a long, thick blanket, a terrycloth cloak. He moved around her and toward the door, when her soft, strained voice, trickled out to recall him, trembling piteously.

"I want _you_," she murmured.

Treize closed his eyes, cementing the knowledge. Then he turned and left.


	2. Communication

I will write a fanfic or drabble with the pairing  
**Dorothy/Trowa**  
rated  
**PG or PG-13**  
and include the following things:  
**school, pillow, knife**

**Communication**

She recognized him at once.

They were at **school** together; she because she wanted to penetrate the common world from within, and he because the circus couldn't travel in the winter.

They were moving down the stairs, she descending, he ascending, and they saw each other, gazes meeting, a dim assent of knowledge passing between them in the split second that their eyes lingered more than was needed. Other than that, no outward sign.

Trowa never spoke in class, except when he was called on, and was naturally shunned.

Similarly, Dorothy never spoke, but rather from a conceited belief that she was better and mundane studies were not worth her time. When she was called on to participate, she answered with an air of superiority. She always answered right.

One day, while the rest of their classmates participated in a game of basketball, she managed to corner him near the cold, metal bleachers, and confronted him.

"I remember you," she said, coldly.

He didn't respond.

She dipped her chin low. "Do you have any sort of soul at all?"

He raised his chin in turn. "I keep it to myself," he said quietly, face betraying no emotion.

For revenge, to scare him, she hid a **knife** inside his desk.

Still, there was no reaction.

That morning, he approached her casually after class in the hallway and held out the gleaming weapon. "I believe this is yours."

She narrowed her slanted eyes at him.

The last student scampered out of sight.

She whipped it away from him and pushed him against the wall, holding the pointed object at his throat threateningly. He was tall, and she had to stand on tip-toe to reach his eyelevel.

"Listen," she searched for words, between clenched teeth, "You and I . . . are not going to get along."

He regarded her with empty eyes, reflecting a hint of sadness.

Dorothy was humiliated. Days passed with no reaction. Who was this boy? He passed his days like a living specter.

Finally, one night, after tossing and squirming, haunted with his image, she tip-toed in her nightgown to the boys dormitory. She, of course, had acquainted herself with the security system from the outset, and so could get in and out of places without keys, as long as she knew the number codes. She number coded her way into Trowa's bedroom.

Inside, she stood by the door for several minutes, heart racing, skin prickling. What was she doing? Several times, she turned to move the handle and leave, only to look back again at the still form of her enemy, sandy bangs swept over his eyes ridiculously, perfectly still. Finally, she made up her mind, just swirling around to go, when the monotonously deep voice rose up.

"Well? What is it?"

She froze.

She moved like a whirlwind. Before she knew it, she had crossed the distance from the door to his bed and yanked the **pillow** from right out underneath him. His head hit the mattress with a soft thud.

"You," she uttered, "will show me some respect. From now on, I expect to receive answers from you, and you will most certainly _not_ keep me standing ludicrously in your room when you know I'm there!" Her cheeks burned furiously. If she had been familiar with the phenomenon, she would have noted that she was blushing.

He watched her with mossy, serene eyes. Slowly, he moved from his side to his back and sighed heavily. "Why didn't you just _tell_ me if you wanted to be friends?"


	3. Warriors

I will write a fanfic or drabble with the pairing  
**Heero/Hilde**  
rated  
**NC-17**  
and include the following things:  
**bullet, angst, book**

**Warriors**

She awoke to the vicious knocks raging against her door.

Hugging herself in the chill, Hilde padded bare-foot through her small house, approaching the entrance. The door shuddered, like a mad thing. Hilde, thinking only to silence it, flung it open without any thought or caution. The wind howled a greeting, and she was startled to see the blue shadow looming over her. She thought fleetingly that Death had come to meet her. But the thing pushed its way into the lowly lit hallway, hunched beneath a heavy burden

"Duo?" His breathing was shaky but deep.

"I'm sorry, Hilde," he said, blue eyes reflecting urgency.

Hilde could not decide whether to laugh or yell. Her brow furrowed lightly, her dim eyes trying to put shape to the form slung around Duo's shoulders. He moved forward into the house and released his burden heavily onto the sofa.

"I have to ask you for a favor." She nodded solemnly. "This is my friend . . . Heero. I can't take care of him right now, but I need some place to keep him out of the storm."

Hilde shook her head in anxiety. "But wh-where – what?"

"I can't," Duo said quickly, already retracing his steps back out to the door. "In the morning," he said, stopping and turning at the threshold. He placed a palm on her shoulder. "Thanks, baby," he smiled weakly, and lifted his hand to tousle her black mop of hair.

Then he was gone.

* * *

She surveyed the young man with the scrutinizing gaze only a woman can hold. Though Hilde was little, she had skillfully moved him from the living space into her small bedroom. Once laid out on the bed, unconscious and sprawling, she had a chance to look at him.

He was large, with long limbs, but fragile-looking, as though he had been weakly put together. His shirt and slacks were mercilessly torn, revealing deep gashes in tender skin. His shaggy bangs feel deeply into his eyes, and the thick lashes trembled on his cheeks, betraying nightmares. She leaned over him tentatively to get a better look.

Heero.

Her gaze trailed down his neck onto his chest. The largest gash was just below his right ribcage, obviously made by a bullet, but where the object was now, she could only guess. Probably Duo had removed it at some point.

Drawn to abrupt awareness by this last observation, Hilde leapt into the bathroom and tore apart the cabinets looking for bandages and ointments to secure the wound. It was no longer bleeding, but if it was left open for too long, infection would be certain.

Returning, she undid the remainder of his shirt and carefully parted it to make room to work. She had been a warrior, for quite some time, but the nurturing and healing nature had never left her. She tucked her arm around his waist and hoisted him to his side facing her. The move must have been rough, because the arms of her invalid came up abruptly and grasped her own.

She gasped involuntarily.

His eyes flew open, wide and alert, a cobalt blue. But he was not looking at her.

"He-Heero?" she stammered softly.

His eyes fixated on an invisible object in space.

"It's okay, Heero," she murmured. She lowered him down gingerly, trying to ease his anxiety. But it was like yanking herself from a Chinese torture contraption. The harder she pulled the harder he held her. She had to wait.

She moved herself onto the side of the bed, his hands still grasping her. His eyes found her then, but she felt none the better. They were cold and beautiful, like hematite, and alarmed and tense. She felt nervous, but she placed both her hands on one of his and began to rub it, gently massaging. She did this for a while, until she felt his grip relax, and she was able to take his palm and gently place it next him on the bed. The other came away easily.

Hilde leaned hesitantly and placed a cool palm to his forehead. "My name's Hilde," she said, "I'm Duo's friend."

But his eyes were gone again, vacant, as if a thin film had slid over them, and she rose quietly and left the room, leaving him there to regain her bearings.

When she came back in, his eyes were lidded. She felt uneasy leaving him alone, so she lowered a chair next to him and tucked a book into her lap and read. She went through a good third of the novel, rubbing the pages between her thin fingertips, taking in the textured paper.

She was quite absorbed, until a voice broke in intrusively. "You don't have to stay awake."

She started and pressed a hand to her chest. "You startled me," she breathed.

He was awake. But his deep, cold eyes engaged only the ceiling.

She waited for a while, and when it became clear that he wouldn't speak again, she closed her book carefully, and tugged at the sheets, trying to cover his elbow.

"You've got quite a gash," she said sympathetically. "Casualties were always the part of battle I dreaded most – both for myself and others."

When he didn't respond for quite some time, she rose slowly. But his voice stopped her again.

"You're a warrior," he said quietly.

"I was," she admitted.

He closed his eyes. She saw his chest rise up, then fall down. His bullet wound must pain him terribly. But he showed no sign of it.

Hilde sat back down, lightly, like a bird. Several more minutes passed without speaking.

"Go," he said finally.

Hilde blinked.

"You don't need to take care of me." He said it bluntly, without emotion, but something about the way his mouth moved let her know to stay was despicable to him.

"Heero . . .," she said quietly, steadily.

Still, he ignored her.

Suddenly, her face broke into a smile. She laughed, "You're in my house, baka."

His gaze found her.

"Come, now," she said playfully. "There really can't be anything too bad about letting a woman take care of you."

He watched her with a blank gaze. Then, slowly, he lifted his arms and tucked them underneath the blankets.

"Women are bossy," he quipped, matter-of-factly.

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows. "Do you know many of us? Or are you thinking of one in particular?"

He adopted the far-away expression again, and she deduced the answer from that.

"Is she pretty?" she asked, quietly.

Heero looked at her again. "Yes."

Hilde stroked the cover of her book, strangely mournful.

He was peering at her harshly.

"What?"

He refused to answer.

"Well," she said, rather breathlessly, "if she has to deal with anything like what I've put up with, I wish her the best of luck."

He shut his eyes fast. Hilde wondered what in the world he was doing, until she realized, with a twist in her abdomen, that he had been shot with a knife of pain.

It undid him. The moment was brief, and passed with all the swiftness and poignancy of an arrow, but she saw it. The angst, the agony, the fear, the broken hope, the sorrow was all revealed in that instant when he had to drop everything to focus in on the task at hand. She watched, amazed, as that extraordinary man suppressed all his humanity and shut it neatly into an iron safe.

She found herself stepping softly, moving backwards. She wanted to get away, before she burst into tears.

His brows trembled. His eyes flew open. This time, they looked directly at her. "Where -?"

They both paused, locked on each other.

Then, with an obvious effort, Heero jerked himself onto his side, showing his bare, bruised back to her.

Hilde breathed, shallow slips of air. As carefully as she had begun to leave, she tip-toed back to his bedside and sat carefully in her chair.

She felt terribly. He was angry, she knew it. Because in his moment of pain, she tried to leave him.

And because he had wanted her.

* * *

Her head nodded, her sharp chin burying into her collarbone. Her discomfort meant she slept only shallowly, and so she stirred a little in reaction to the stealthy, though un-maskable movements in the room.

She lifted her face and opened her eyes sleepily. The Gundam pilot moved stiffly, replacing his torn shirt and muddied jacket. She watched him as he, unnoticing, struggled to lean over his black-laced boots. The blue-grey light filtering through the window betrayed the dim morning. It fell on him like a dirty halo.

He turned, with a mechanic, jerky movement, and saw her watching. Wihtout a word, he stood abruptly, his steps heavy as he left the room.

Hilde jumped up after him, following helplessly. She felt as though she should say something to stop him, but one night alone with this stranger made it clear he would not be persuaded by anything or anyone outside his own head.

And yet . . . He had asked . . . almost.

He unlatched the lock heavily, and flung open the door. Just as he made to exit, she put a slender arm in front of him, crossing the width of the doorpost.

"Just a minute," she said sternly.

He needn't speak. His gaze demanded the question.

"You forgot this," she said, opening his palm and closing it again around a cool, thin object.

Then he left.

* * *

He tramped into the growing light, each shudder of pain running through him at once halted and reprimanded by the neat clench of teeth.

He opened his palm. Against his pale skin, a silver piece of metal flashed greyly. He looked closer.

It read:

_Hilde Schbeiker_

_Fourth Infantry_

_OZ_


End file.
